


And Suddenly Nothing is Worse than this

by bathandbodyworks



Series: Mistakes [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Child Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, bruce is a lil more shitty, poor circus baby 🥺, u know how that be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-16 21:48:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21278273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bathandbodyworks/pseuds/bathandbodyworks
Summary: “You think,” Bruce says, voice almost a whisper but rising in volume, “that you would last even a day out there, alone? That you have anything close to what it takes to survive, to work, tobeBatman?”%%%Bruce isn’t a good person, and now matter how hard he tries, Dick can’t seem to leave.





	And Suddenly Nothing is Worse than this

**Author's Note:**

> i love love love amazing beautiful talented dad bruce wayne that tries his best but suffers from emotional constipation and justtryinghisbest™️ disorder, but i’m constantly writing that mess of a man, and today, i will be writing about bad not so very good dad bruce wayne that’s also a mess. it was kinda fun. 
> 
> working titles: broseph, req, he is a mistake (oooh angst)
> 
> this literally sat in my docs closed to finished for weeks… like… there were things... i wanted to add... but... school...

Bruce is mean.

Dick knows it like he knows his name. 

He means to say: Bruce is _mean_. His eyes are cold, his lips are thin, his brows are harsh. 

He knows Bruce cares about people. He goes out every night dressed as a bat, doesn’t he? He fights for the people of Gotham, night after night, day after day, year after year. 

But so does he. And he’s not a _mean_ person. He cares for people, in an individual way.

He takes the time to make sure they’re okay, to make sure they feel safe, to make sure they’re getting home alright. 

Bruce doesn’t seem to get that saving lives doesn’t require being indifferent to them. Dick thinks he might hate him for that, but he seems to be having a hard time deciding how he feels about Bruce: the man who saved him, the man who can never seem to be proud of him, the man who helped him, the man who is callous to him, the man who gave him purpose, the man who hit him.

But Bruce is an enigma, and Dick has always loved puzzles. 

%%%

Dick looks up into Bruce’s eyes. 

They’re soft, cold, lonely, and aching.

Dick’s never seen eyes like Bruce’s.

Someone told him once that eyes are the windows to the soul. He doesn’t know what soul he’s looking into when he looks into Bruce’s eyes, when his windows are all slanted and warped and caked in dirt. 

Dick can see the hardening in Bruce’s gaze, how tense his hands are, the stress held in his shoulders. He sees the sadness behind Bruce, but he doesn't know what the cause is. 

Dick opens his mouth, and closes it. 

Bruce gives him a small smile, hopeful yet reluctant, and–

and–

Dick wraps his arms around Bruce. 

Dick breathes, and Bruce doesn’t. Dick’s heart beats loudly, his eyes squeezed shut, and Bruce is still, and Dick doesn’t know what Bruce is doing with his eyes. 

Dick squeezes Bruce’s middle gently, and buries his face in Bruce’s jacket, feels the roughness of it scrape his cheek. 

Bruce sucks in a deep breath, his torso moving, and Dick squeezes harder. 

Dick feels warm, and nice, and like nothing matters. He feels as if every second is infinite. 

He feels like time is a still being, like nothing has ever moved or changed or lived or died.

He feels like no moment is temporary, until he’s reminded that it is not.

Bruce grabs him gently by the shoulder, and pulls him off of his stomach. 

Dick wobbles, and wipes aimlessly at his face. His fingers clench uselessly. He looks up at Bruce, whose face is soft but cold. Bruce takes a moment to fix his jacket, and Dick stares at Bruce’s face with reddened eyes and cheeks. 

Bruce’s windows are gone. Empty. 

He only begins, “Dick, I–“ before Dick blinks, and sprints from the room.

He doesn’t want to hear what Bruce says. He’s too scared. 

%%%

“Dick, you can’t go out there if you’re going to continue to make vacuous mistakes!”

“I don’t even know what that means, Bruce!”

Bruce sighs loudly, angry, air rushing out like fire, and smacks a hard fist against a desk. The sounds shakes the desk loudly, and metal reverberates around the cave and makes Dick flinch. 

“I shouldn’t have let you out. You’re too young and immature. You’re not capable of doing this yet,” Bruce says, eyes on his planted fist. 

“Yes I am, Bruce! I’ve been out before, and just because I forgot to download one file doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be Robin!” Dick steps towards Bruce, a shake in his voice as he pleads with Bruce. 

Bruce shakes his head. “No, you made a fatal mistake. There’s no way of knowing what kind of information was in that file.” Bruce faces Dick, and points upstairs towards the manor. “You’re benched. One month until you can learn not to make–“

“No, Bruce!” Dick cuts him off with a yell that comes out more desperate than he means for it too. He needs Robin, he needs some sort of purpose, some sort of reason to live and stay. 

“When you can get your act together, Dick, and not continuously make brainless mistakes in the only fucking place it matters, then you can go back out.” Dick sucks in a breath as Bruce curses, and feels his eyes widen. 

He rarely hears Bruce curse, and it’s shocking to his young ears. Didn’t only criminals and teenagers curse? 

“Until then, you’re done,” Bruce says, gaze cold and hard. 

Dick stomps his foot on the metal floor, and feels it shake his leg. “Bruce, that’s not fair!”

“And neither are the lives that will be lost because you didn’t grab that file,” Bruce says coldly. 

Dick gapes. “It– it was only one file!” Bruce is being irrational, he knows it. He’s exaggerating to make him feel bad. 

“And it’s on your head.” 

Dick feels something in him tilt, fall. The something rolls across the floor, collapsing. 

His fault?

Dick feels tears come into his eyes, his face heat up. His hands open and close on his uniform, grasping at nothing. “I– I, didn’t mean– didn’t mean to…”

Bruce shakes his head. “Go upstairs, Dick.” 

Dick nods, shakily. “Umm, okay. Okay.” He sniffles, wipes at his nose, and moves towards the cave showers to change out of his uniform. 

His fault? 

He’s so fucking dumb. 

%%%

Dick falls to the ground. 

The thud reverberates around the cave, somehow louder than the initial slap of Bruce’s palm on his skin. 

Dick is on his hands and knees, panting.

He can’t breathe. He doesn’t know if it’s because of the slap, or the shock, or the fall, but he’s scared. 

His chest heaves. 

He closes his eyes, listens to the sound of his ragged breaths as his chest burns. 

He carefully places one hand against his cheek, touching it softly. It stings, burns against his hand. 

Dick carefully rolls over, onto his back with one knee bent and the other straight. His eyes flutter shut before he forces them open again. Dick looks up at Bruce. 

Bruce is standing, panting slightly. His fists are clenched tightly at his side. His eyebrows are furrowed, and his eyes are looking off somewhere past Dick. His mind isn’t here. 

Dick has never felt so small. Bruce is an infinitely tall giant, and he is an ant, endlessly irritating and desperately needy.

Dick cradles his cheek, mind running sloppily through reasons why Bruce decided to slap him when he was standing in front of him, trying to argue through a red face and tears.

Slowly, Dick pulls his knees to his chest, and wraps his arms around them. He buries his face in his knees, and feels more tears drip down the sides of his face.

He listens to the sound of Bruce’s panting. It is loud, angry, fervent. 

Eventually, Bruce speaks. “Dick, I–,” he says before cutting himself off. Dick adjusts his head, eyes peeking out over his knees and between his hair at the words. His face feels red and warm. 

“I shouldn’t have pushed away the conversation.” Bruce’s words are slow; careful. “But you know better than to talk about civilian matters in uniform.”

Dick wipes his face with the palm of his hand. He sniffs, snot running down his nose and onto his lip. He probably looks like a baby instead of a twelve year old. 

It always feels like his fault. He shouldn’t have started asking about all the school events Bruce had missed, it was a bad time. Who asks questions about civilian events while still wearing a vigilante uniform? He does, apparently. 

He shouldn’t have started yelling at Bruce, and he shouldn’t have started crying. He’s never seen Bruce cry, and yet he still thinks it’s okay to shed tears in front of him without repercussions. 

He’s been hit before, a million times actually, by criminals and thugs and two-faced villains. Not usually in the face, but still, he’s been hit a million times before. Never by someone he’s supposed to trust, and love, and need and respect, though. 

This hurts worse. 

Dick feels angry. Bruce has never _hit_ him before. He’s come close, with his balled fists and thinned lips and tight stance. 

They taught him about this at school. What anyone, regardless of guardianship, should not be doing to someone. It’s abuse, and he knows that, but he also knows to roll with a punch and not fall, and yet, him, Robin, Dick: he didn’t do that. 

And still, he thinks, Bruce shouldn’t hit him. Hitting people is reserved for criminals, for bad people, for people who ruin lives. He doesn’t deserve that. 

But what if he does deserve that? Is he ruining people’s lives? Is he ruining Bruce’s life?

Cause Bruce is a good person, right? He helps people, he stops crime, and saves the city. Only good people would do that, Dick thinks. 

He knows more than anything that he is a good person, though. He is better than Bruce. His parents raised him right, and he is a good person. Only criminals should be hit, and he is not a criminal. He is a good person. 

So he is angry. Bruce didn’t need to hit him. He could’ve just yelled louder. 

But Dick is also nervous, scared to make Bruce angrier, because what if Bruce hits him again? He doesn’t want Bruce to take away Robin, cause Robin is all he has in all of Gotham. 

Dick slowly stands up, wiping snot and tears off his face with the back of his hand. He feels impossibly warm, and Bruce looks as cold as ever. 

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Dick says with a sniff. 

Bruce grunts in response. 

Dick hesitates for a moment. He wants to share his anger, but he can’t do it. He’s scared, and fear makes him a coward. Instead, with his eyes tilted upwards, lips trembling, he says to Bruce: “You abused me.” He steps back cautiously, and freezes when Bruce tilts forward. 

Bruce opens his mouth to speak before closing it. He does it again, and Dick realizes that Bruce’s eyes are looking past him, and that Bruce isn’t here anymore. Dick looks down at his shoes.

Dick turns, glancing up at the stairs that lead to the manor. “I still love you,” Dick says softly, Bruce behind him.

Bruce doesn’t move, and Dick bolts up the stairs, Grayson Grace the only thing keeping him from stumbling. 

It’s not the last time Bruce hits him.

%%%

Dick know that easy things can be difficult sometimes. 

Sometimes he just wants to curl up in bed, and cry, but he can’t. He knows he can’t. 

He’s got responsibilities, and people to protect and help, and friends to send homework, and guardians to impress, and too much to do to just curl up in a ball and never get up.

He really just wants to get a full night's worth of sleep for once. But he’s in high school and also a vigilante, so maybe that’s asking for too much. It’s probably stunting his growth.

Sometimes he stares up at Bruce’s face when it’s late and Bruce is saying something, probably a lecture he’s zoned out of, and under an expertly applied layer of makeup, Dick can see the fading concealer reveal itself to expose Bruce’s dark red eye bags. Sometimes Dick forgets Bruce is human, until he sees the unmistakable marks. 

They both need sleep. But much like Gotham, there’s little time to rest.

%%%

Dick stamps his foot on the ground.

“This isn’t _justice_, Bruce!” He feels angry, a deeply rooted sort of anger that stems and grows and burns and expands from within, and his fists are clenched and his eyes are narrowed. Bruce’s brow is furrowed and he’s leaning forward vaguely menacingly. 

“And what would you know about justice, Dick?” Bruce steps forward, angry, scary, and Dick stumbles back, struggling to not let fear dip into his features as he remembers the dozens of criminals beaten until they can’t move, can barely breathe, faces painted in red by the man in front of him.

“Almost killing the man who murdered your parents,” Bruce continues harshly, “is not justice. And neither is murdering the Joker, Dick. Because that is what it is, Dick. Murder.”

Bruce is a hypocrite, Dick knows. He takes his punches and fists too far, and Dick always ends up dissociating and staring at the ground as Bruce pummels his knuckles into a face. But he can’t focus on that now. “Bruce, he’s killed– he’s killed so many people. We’re saving lives if we stop him!” Dick looks into Bruce eyes, for something, anything, hope, understanding, trust, he’s not sure. Whatever it is, he doesn’t see it. All he can see in Bruce’s eyes is coldness. 

“That’s a line we can’t cross.” Bruce turns around, cape almost fluttering behind him. It’s too heavy. 

Dick stamps his foot. “Don’t walk away from me, Bruce! You can’t do this again!”

Bruce keeps walking.

“Bruce! This isn’t– you think I need you? I don’t! I can kill the Joker alone, okay? No more innocent people have to die. And I’m doing it with or without you!”

Bruce stops, still facing away from him, his head turned slightly over his shoulder. “No, you won’t, Dick.”

“You don’t fucking know me, Bruce. Don’t tell me what I won’t do.”

“If you kill the Joker, Dick, I will make sure you spend the rest of your life in Blackgate.”

Dick feels his throat burn. His jaw shakes, and his hands form fists. “Fuck you, Bruce,” he spits out bitterly. “You care so fucking much about Batman that you won’t even look at what you need to do. You care more about not crossing your line than anybody else’s life. You don’t– you don’t even care–“

Bruce cuts him off. “This isn’t what justice is, Dick. Joker is in a body cast in a hospital. I put him there. And he’s staying there.” 

Dick feels his heart drop, and he swallows before speaking. “What?” 

Bruce turns around, his brow furrowed, and Dick is shocked by how angry he looks. “The Joker is in a body cast at Gotham Memorial because of me, because I saw him slice through a child’s neck while she screamed. I almost killed him, and Jim had to stop me. Killing Joker, Dick?” Bruce steps towards Dick, and Dick falters, slips and stumbles backwards. “Killing Joker isn’t justice. Justice is making that man suffer, and then never letting him hurt anyone again.” 

“Justice. That sick fucker doesn’t deserve justice, Bruce,” Dick says with venom. His voice is shaky. “I don’t get you, Bruce. I really don’t. You care so much about him that you won’t even let him die.”

Bruce says nothing for a moment. His eyes blink slowly, his mind made. “Leave, Dick. Get out of my cave.”

Bruce is seething.

“You need help, Bruce.”

“Get out, Dick.”

“You can’t possibly think what you’re doing is right,” Dick says as he locks eyes with Bruce. 

Bruce turns again. “I know what I’m doing,” he says coldly, as he walks towards the  
batmobile and reaches behind his head to pull his cowl up. “Leave your key with Alfred.” 

Something in Dick’s chest flutters. Realization hits him. “Bruce, you can’t just, kick me out.” He sounds weak, but he can’t bring himself to care. 

Bruce doesn’t respond. His chest pangs, his head pounds.

“Bruce– Bruce, you can’t kick me out. I’m sixteen, I– you’re my guardian. You can’t do that,” Dick pleads. He’s stumbling, tripping over nothing, both literally and figuratively. 

Bruce jumps into the car, and Dick runs towards it. “Bruce, stop, come on, just– just listen to me. Stop!”

Bruce finally does stop, the engine in the car drowning all other noises out. 

“Dick, get out of the cave, or I will take you out myself.” Bruce doesn’t look at him as he speaks. His eyes are stuck straight ahead, his body still.

“Bruce, come on, I’m your son, stop, I’m sorry, you’re being an asshole, come on–,” and Dick shouts out, screams, as the sound of the batmobile driving away drowns out his pleas. 

“Fuck,” Dick says, his face in his hands. Water pools behind his eyes, and Dick angrily wipes it away. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” 

Fuck. He’s alone, again, drowning in the darkness and silence of a cave, and all he can think about is how he’s so fucking dumb. 

%%%

Dick stares out the window of his bedroom. 

Gotham is _gross_, his brain says loudly. It’s buildings are slimy and dirty, it’s streets are grimy and crowded, it’s sky dusty and polluted. 

The Manor is clean beyond belief. It’s ginormous. The floors are shiny and polished, the mirrors are glossy and spotless, the chandeliers bright and shimmery. He could fit dozens of his favorite park in just the upstairs floor. 

Dick doesn’t want to be here. He wants open fields and clean tents and little beds shoved beside his parents. 

It’s too cold in Gotham and the Manor, too cold in the cave below. 

He’s sick of foggy days and smoky nights. Cigarette smoke wafts into his bedroom every night, 10 miles and a river away from central Gotham. 

Dick can see it, crystal, in his mind. A woman, trying to dress nice but her pay too low and the cost of living too high, with her dirty black top and dirty black skirt, with heels, inches and inches of heels. 

She’s holding a baby. The baby coos, but is ignored. The cigarette she holds in her other hand is her only relief from the relentless push of being a single mother in the most dangerous city in the world. The smoke floats to Dick’s ginormous bedroom, 10 miles and a river away. 

Or maybe, Dick thinks, it’s a man who is the source of the cigarette smoke. 

The smoke glides around the man, forming shapeless blobs. He puts the cigarette, his only friend, to his lips, sucks, and leans his head back. Distantly, the man can hear yelling. He ignores it, and stares up at the star-less sky. The smoke floats to Dick’s expensive bedroom, 10 miles and a river away. 

Either way, Gotham is gross. Gotham is not for people like him, who need only open fields and clean tents and little beds shoved beside their parents. 

%%%

Dick is cold, and he can’t breathe. 

Every inhale burns like fire in his chest, and every exhale leaves him begging for more. 

Hypoxia is supposed to be comfortable. A lack of oxygen in his tissues is supposed to be a painless way to go out, but something is wrong, because it _burns_.

Maybe it’s hypoxemia. There’s not enough oxygen in his cells, and he’s going to pass out soon, but where’s his coughing and wheezing?

It doesn’t make sense, why wouldn’t he have enough oxygen? What’s going on?

His head pounds. 

Bruce said–

Hypercapnia. Hypercapnia. Hypercapnia.

He’s never been lucky. . 

It’s hypercapnia. 

Too much carbon dioxide. Too much carbon dioxide. 

The world spins as his head screams. 

Bruce had said–

He gasps, and his chest feels blank for a second, before it feels like it’s crushing him, his organs, his soul.

He’s tired, which he knows isn’t a good sign, and he flexes his hands against the ropes binding him to the chair in the tiny room he’s stuck in. 

They must be pumping something in, it’s the only explanation for why he feels this way. 

Bruce said don’t get caught–

His hands shake against his will, and he knows then that if Batman doesn’t show up soon, he’s gone, dead, splat.

He breathes in again, short and quick, and again and again. It’s the only moment nothing inside him burns, and he brings in precious oxygen.

He turns his head to the side, back and forth, flailing frantically. Its so dark and he can’t see. Is there a blindfold on his head? 

Bruce said–

Oh shit, he’s going to die. He’s going to die alone, by himself, only fifteen and scared, so, so scared. 

His heart is so loud and so fast in his chest, a pulse only broken by his frantic breaths. He can’t hyperventilate right now, he can’t do that. Not a good idea.

He slows his breathing, careful, but it hurts, burns with a thousand suns he can’t see. He yanks his arms forward, and they grind against a rope. 

His head bangs against the back of a chair as he shakes, and it only increases his headache. 

He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe. 

Bruce said they’ll hurt him–

He’s not supposed to do something, but he can barely remember what it is. 

He can’t breathe, and his body is wet all over. It’s gross, and he shakes uncomfortably. He wants out, he wants to leave, he doesn’t want to be wherever he is. Everything hurts. 

He feels his hands spasm and hit the chair, his knuckles aching painfully. 

Bruce–

Fuck, fuck, what’s going on?

Where’s Batman?

What was he not supposed to do?

What’s happening to him?

Something falls off his face, but his sight barely improves. 

Everything he can see is bright, but so blurry. He can make out a sliver of light from a door,  
but what door? What door is that? 

He wants to sleep. Everything hurts. He’s so confused. His legs and hands won’t stop shaking. He’s sweaty and gross and disgusting. 

What was he not supposed to do? 

Where’s Batman?

Bruce told him not to–

His eyes blink shut, and he forces them open when he’s pretty sure he’s not supposed to go to sleep. 

Bruce had said don’t get caught or–

He sucks in a harsh breath, and his head falls to the side against his shoulder. 

He can’t breathe. 

Bruce?

Everything burns, and he is ice, cold and melting and unimportant, and the rest is heat, warm and encompassing and making him sweaty and gross. 

He’s so tired. It all burns. 

His eyes close, and don’t open again for 15 hours, where’s he’s laying down in a cot in the cave, caked in sweat. 

He can hear Bruce typing away at a computer, and nothing burns. 

Dick breathes, and is thankful. 

%%%

Dick stares at the ground, empty. 

The sound is thick and wet. It shakes his brain, back and forth, pounding away at him like a drum on a battlefield. 

Bruce smashes his fist, again and again, and Dick _feels_ the heavy plop against the man’s skull. He can hear the skin tear and rip, how the man’s blood splatters and dances across the cold concrete floor. 

Nausea builds in his throat. _No killing_, he says, _We don’t kill,_ he breathes, _How are we better than them if we kill_, he reprimands, but how is this any better?

How is destroying this man’s face, cracking his nose, fracturing his jaw, tearing his eyelids to shreds, any better? 

Is Batman any better?

Dick wants to throw up. He doesn’t want to be here, dressed in green and red and black, as Bruce pounds and pounds a man’s head. 

He looks up, despite himself. Bruce’s gloved fist shimmers with shiny red, and Dick watches in slow motion as Bruce slams the pale head against the ground. It bounces, shakes against the glistening floor.

He can’t see Bruce’s face, and he doesn’t think he wants to. He can see how his back shakes, how his head turns to search for a second, third, fourth criminal (victim). 

Unconscious bodies surround them. Men lie bruised on the ground, and Dick can’t help but think their crime doesn’t warrant this. He’s read the statistics on crime and poverty in Gotham, and he thinks he knows why most of these men are illegally moving guns. 

The man is passed out now, unconscious, but visibly breathing, gross and wet. 

“Bat–“

He gets cut off. “Get in the car,” Bruce says firmly. Dick shakes. 

“But what about–“

“Get in the car. You’re done.” Bruce wipes blood off his face with the back of his hand, and Dick watches as drops fall to the floor. 

“What about you?” Dick asks, bolder than he feels.

“Just get in the car, Robin,” Bruce says. 

“Fine,” Dick concedes. He only nods, tired. He doesn’t want to be here any longer anyways. 

Dick turns his head as a voice arises from behind Batman. “No, no, I’m sorry, I’m sorry–“

It’s a man, dressed in black and dark green and gray, crawling across the floor, cradling a broken leg. Blood pours from the corner of one eye, and hair clings to his forehead. His fear in the Bat takes hold of him, and he cries as he scoots further away. 

Bruce walks towards the man, pulling a zip tie out of his belt, and Dick turns around. He can’t see this. 

There’s a wet noise behind him as he walks towards the car. As fist meets gut, Dick begins to run. 

His feet move without his permission, legs gliding past one another. He feels his clothed arms rub against the kevlar of the side of his chest, and he sprints faster. 

His steps echo. He can’t hear his own thoughts over his heartbeat. 

_Hypocrite_, Dick says, thinks, to no one but himself. 

“You’re a FUCKING HYPOCRITE,” Dick screams, pants once, shakes, waves violently a fist to the skies when he gets outside, and prays for absolutely nothing. 

%%%

Dick stumbles, but doesn’t fall. 

His face must be red and blue and black and purple, even though it’s only been a second since Bruce hit him.

It stings already, and the steady thump of his heart is loud, echoing. 

He thinks about how angry he is that he’s used to this, that it doesn’t shock him to pieces like it did when he was younger, that he and Bruce can move on from this so quickly, how Bruce forgets this so fast but remembers case details from a decade ago. 

That hurts more than the hit, and more than Dick can comprehend. 

“I’m sorry,” Dick’s voice is soft and broken, and it feels uncharacteristically not him, and Bruce either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. 

“Don’t _ever_ speak about my parents that way. Do you understand me?”

Dick nods, biting his lip. “I’m sorry.” He can’t take his eyes off the floor. 

“You should be,” Bruce says, voice deep. “They were better people than you or me.”

“I know,” Dick says, calmly, apathetically, placidly. 

He’s almost reaches Bruce’s eye level now, and yet he still lacks anything that makes him seem threatening to Bruce. He’s still a punchable target to Bruce’s mind. Bruce would never do this to Clark or Lucius or Oliver or Billy or Hal, so what makes him different? Does he do  
this to himself? 

Why is he like this?

Is it his personality? His age? Their relationship? The fact that he’s Robin? 

Dick knows very little. He is young, and subsequently dumb. This is what he knows: 

The world is full of moments, made of them. Dick counts them, one by one, and adds them up in his head. There are many, and too many to write. 

Moments are constant, flowing and ebbing with time.

There’s a before and after. Before the fall, and after. There is no during, and Dick doesn’t think about it. 

Bruce fills his after, and the moments are infinite. 

_Bruce_ is infinite, gargantuan, fearless.

And there’s a moment, right there, when both of them are silent and hurt and thinking, where something changes. Something is finally too far beyond repair. 

It’s too late, but he doesn’t know what for. 

His face burns with a thousand things, and suddenly nothing is worse than this.

%%%

Dick flattens his hand across his chest.

The cave is dark, but the candle between them is bright.

“There is no going back, Dick,” Bruce says.

Dick nods, hand on his heart, the other in the air. The lamp light flickers, and Dick’s eyes focus on the shadow behind Bruce’s body. It’s almost bat shaped.

“I’m ready,” Dick replies, voice steady.

He knows he’s ready. His Robin suit is already developed, a perfect blend of aramids and woven steel and polyether-polyurea copolymers. He’s been trained in flight since the day he was born, and he can fight well enough to beat any thug. He’s ready. 

Dick looks up at Bruce, whose face is distorted by flickering flames. 

There’s a moment of silence, and Dick prepares for Bruce to speak. 

“How scared are you, Dick?” Bruce’s voice is cold, icy, and it’s not anything Dick expected him to say. 

Dick swallows and flattens his features. “I’m ready, I promise.” He sounds more confident than he feels.

“Are you?”

Dick nods. “I’m ready.”

“You can not return, Dick,” Bruce says. “You can not stop. You can not rest. This will never end. This will be your life.” Bruce’s eyes are red in the light, and Dick stares into them but doesn’t speak.

“Do you want to fight for this city, Dick? Do you want to enter a crusade you can’t return from? Is that what you want? To fight an unending battle you can’t hope to win? To face monsters of men that care _nothing_ for you, Dick?_ Is that what you want_?”

He hesitates before speaking. “I wanna help people, Bruce.” He feels small. 

Bruce nods sternly, the candle and the cold metal tray in his hand perfectly still. “Then this will begin the fight.”

%%%

It hurts, it hurts, it _hurts_.

It burns, burns, the fire suffering and moving inside of him.

It’s crawling it’s way out of his esophagus, spewing and burning his stomach and flesh. It’s escalating, endless and infinitely, never ending.

It claws its way out of his mouth, scraping past his teeth, tearing his mouth from one side of his face to the other. Stitches form over the piles of blood leaking from the corners, coating his teeth and chin and chest. 

He’s a monster.

He can’t breathe. It grabs his insides and shakes, slinging him across the room. His head is under and he closes his eyes and holds his breath as the water drowns him. 

The hellfires burn, scorching his insides.

The sky moves, wobbles, collapses. The ground rumbles violently, groans, steals him. 

He’s falling, falling, falling. 

Burning, burning, burning. 

Drowning, drowning, drowning. 

Everything collides, all at once, smashes him into a billion pieces. His head is over there, his intestines laid out beside it. 

His blood is black, like the night, like the bat, like him. It leaks endlessly, smearing and spreading. It’s coating, covering him. He’ll never escape. 

Never wake up. 

The fire takes his brain, spreads with embers and flames through the water and around his softened body. 

He’s weak, gross, bad. A failure. He’s a failure. 

When he wakes, head pounding, heart beating, eyes pouring, he squeezes his fists into his blanket and stares. 

His ceiling is wide and smooth, and Dick aches for a hug. None is coming.

The fire takes him, and he’s always so fucking dumb. 

%%%

A plate spins, falls, drops from his fragile, desperate, distant hands. 

The world spins, shakes, wobbles.

Collapses.

He breathes, inhales sharp.

He sees cold eyes and dark, furrowed brows, and he sees black clothes and crunchy, silk ties.

He feels the tenseness, the stillness of his neck, and he feels the looseness of his feet on the ground, ready to leap at a moment’s notice. 

Fire crackles, fills his nostrils, clings to the furniture and to his nose. 

Blood coats his tongue as he bites down on his lip, thick and viscous and red. His tongue glides it along his teeth like a paint, and he swallows it down, bitter and warm. 

He can hear breaths, quiet, echo around his head, entering from directly in front of him. They’re too loud. 

He feels pain flare up across his cheek, sharp and hot. Memories, too recent. Too similar. 

“Oops,” Dick shrugs, laughs awkwardly, his words and tone too lighthearted for what just happened and for the fear in his heart. He is shocked and slow and too brave. Too brave. He’s too brave for this.

“Oops,” Bruce echoes back, mocking, deadpan, with no inflection, his body still, and his hands clasped. The word floats around Dick’s head. He’s so dumb.

But Dick nods in response, almost vacant, scared for what comes next. “Oops,” he says, with as little lilt as possible. 

His breaths ring.

A car honks. It is distant, not here. And yet, it is all he can focus on. 

Bruce ignores the noise. “What was that?” 

He sounds accusatory, and that’s what it is: an accusation. 

He wants Dick to spell out his failures, his shortcomings, his mistakes, for him. Write them out in big, bold letters just to humiliate him. 

Dick’s neck twitches when he speaks. His throat is suddenly hoarse, and words scrape against his throat. One hand fists shut in a warm coat pocket. 

He’s giving Bruce nothing.

“I don’t know.” 

Bruce looks back at him, runs a hand through his short hair, and says, “We don’t drop plates in this household, Dick. You know better.”

Dick nods, chest tight. “I know.”

He coughs once, quick, and watches as a drop of blood from his now-torn lip splatters on cool hardwood. Bruce chooses not to notice. 

“Clean this up, Dick.”

“Okay,” Dick responds, already reaching towards the closet they keep the dustpan in. 

He can hear Bruce’s words behind him as Bruce sits down at the dining table to eat. “First his leg, now this.” His voice drops again, and Dick winces as his temporarily injured leg glides against the floor. “Useless…”

And Dick hears his heart shatter. 

He’s so fucking dumb. 

%%%

Dick doesn’t understand.

He doesn’t get why Bruce never lets him go out, or spend time with friends, or see a movie by himself, or do anything that doesn’t revolve around _Bruce_.

“I said no, Dick,” Bruce says from behind a cold, imposing desk, disregarding Dick’s attempts to convince him to go to his friend’s house. 

Dick scoffs to himself. “Bruce,” he drags out, whines, “please?”

“No,” Bruce says firmly, as he finishes off the last licks of his millionth signature today. 

“But, I- I never get to go out, and we’re just gonna like, work on homework and play video games, so I don’t get why I can’t just go over to his house,” Dick pleads, arms crossed across his chest, fists clenched against his sides.

“No, Dick,” Bruce responds impassively, “not today.”

Dick feels something in him drop. Not today? He says it as if tomorrow would work better, as if he’s ever let him go out.

When he was ten, he asked Bruce if he could take him to his school’s fall festival, and Bruce made him choose between Robin and Richard. 

When he was eleven, he asked Bruce to meet up with his friend at a park to learn how to skateboard. Bruce told him he had to go to a corporate meet-up instead.

When he was thirteen, he told Bruce a friend had invited him over to make a project for school, and he’d been told he’d have to figure something else out, because he wasn’t going over to someone else’s house, and no one was coming over to the manor. 

When he was fourteen, he asked Bruce for money to buy his homecoming ticket, and Bruce had said no, left him bruised and sobbing in training when he started arguing. 

But things had been… okay, recently, and Dick thought that maybe Bruce would let him finally hang out with someone, finally let him have friends. 

“You never let me go out! I never have any friends becau-”

Bruce cut Dick off with a finger. “Don’t give me that. I let you have friends and do activities outside of your Robin duties.”

“Bruce!” Dick screams, his head red with anger, his body on fire, “I won’t even have anyone to go to Prom with next year, that’s how controlling you are!”

“Dick,” Bruce says calmly as if Dick isn’t seething in front of him, “if you don’t quiet down and let me work, I’ll talk to someone and get you homeschooled if you’re so worried about school events.”

Dick reaches up and grabs his hair, pulling and yanking from either side of his head, scrunching his body together, squeezing his eyes shut. _Hold it in_, something in him says, but the voice loses. “Yeah, like I’d want to spend any more time in the fucking house,” Dick says, too loud, acutely aware of how Bruce picks it up. 

Bruce stands up, his chair pushed back and pen dropping onto the wood desk. The ink spills, and a paper falls to the floor.

“Go to your room,” Bruce says, pointing towards the door. “Right now.”

Dick doesn’t glance at Bruce as he moves to leave, and Bruce’s voice rings in his ear: “And watch your language.”

Dick feels the moment his temper collapses out from underneath him. He feels the milliseconds pass in slow motion as he angles his head up towards Bruce, eyes peeking up through his hair.

“Fuck you,” Dick says as he walks out the door, and promptly sprints up the stairs as soon as he’s out of the doorway. He can feel his heart pounding rapidly in his chest, banging against his ear drums and smashing its way through his head as he dashes up the stairs to his bedroom.

He skids across the carpet upstairs, sliding and flailing as he rounds the corner.

He locks the door when he reaches his room, the knob turning easily. He pants, looking around his room desperately, not knowing what he’s searching for.

He realizes what he needs as soon as his eyes lock on the window. He has a key to the latches, and he knows how to disable the manor’s security. He could _definitely_ turn off the manor’s security system, unlock and lift the window latches, and jump from the window to the tree and go to his friend’s house. He’s started saving up some money, he can ride the bus.

Fuck it, he decides. Repercussions and consequences are secondary things. He can deal with them later. 

No one owns him.

%%%

Dick loves galas. 

He loves getting dressed up, and putting on a layer of makeup, and eating all the specially prepared food. 

He loves how gentle and kind Bruce is at galas around all the fancy rich people, and every time Bruce smiles at him, a wave of hope and pride fills his chest. 

Bruce always talks about how intelligent and passionate and talented he is to the crowds that surround them, and every time he calls him “son,” Dick looks up at him and smiles, and Bruce smiles back, and every time he thinks that _this_ is it, this is the life, this is his life, he can be loved and appreciated if he just puts on a face and goes out in front of rich people and smiles when Brucie talks about how smart and spirited and athletic his _son_ is, and he can have a father again. 

But the facade always falls as they enter the limo to leave, and Bruce’s words to the driver are always clipped and cold and harsh. 

And Dick always thinks as he watches Bruce stare forward, the car silent, _is this all there is to living?_

%%%

Dick wonders why memories are so sensitive.

Sensitive to heat, and sensitive to emotion?

Some are so warm, burning in the back of his mind, imprinting themselves onto the back of his skull.

Some are cool and icy, tinged with a pale white and blue sadness he can’t place, shockingly lonely and desperately repressed. 

His parents are shades of orange in his memory, warm and determined and free. They lack the aggressiveness of current life, the anger or neglect, the overwhelming pride or darkness. 

Some of his first few days with Bruce are a blueish–gold, memories laced in depression and hopelessness and suppression, but frantically mixed and blended with new grandeur and unwanted beginnings.

The cave is so, so cold, and icicles lace the top of the stalactites, but the memories burn like a fire from the pits of hell and hades. 

Sometimes he stares at ceilings and wonders what color the memory will be later, because the floor is dark blue but maybe the memory will burn his skin off, make it scorch and sizzle, snare the flesh from his round face. 

The cold ones make him want to cry, a deep sort of build up in his throat that starts somewhere inside his chest he can’t place. It always catches in his trachea, and the memories are so sensitive. 

So sensitive it aches and beats and bruises. 

The hot ones make him want to scream, to smash and destroy and kill, and hurt them for hurting him. He wants to screech and never stop. He wants to jump in a hole and never stop falling. He wants to kick a vase that never stops breaking. He wants to breathe and live and understand, he wants to smash his head against the ground and never get up. He wants to let the fire take him, he’s so dumb, he’s so dumb. 

Why are memories so sensitive? Or is it just him? 

%%%

Dick clenches his fist. 

“No, no, no, you can’t keep doing this to me!” The pressure builds in his throat and in his  
head, and he can feel that he’s losing his composure.

Bruce turns, barely listening to him. “You’re an adult, Dick. You can handle your own problems.”

Dick walks towards Bruce. “But I’m not! Bruce, I’m– I’m nineteen, you’re the adult, and you still don’t give a shit about me after all these years!” 

Bruce spins around, carefully in Dick’s face. Bruce’s eyes are bulging, his face red. “Don’t you _dare_ insinuate I don’t care for you. I’m the _only_ reason you’re not dead in some alley.”

Dick knows he should stand down, back up, deescalate; but he can’t. He’s angry, irrational, tired. He can’t stand down. 

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean, Bruce?”

Bruce looks him up and down, cowl hanging from the back of his neck, illuminated in the darkness of the cave. “You think,” Bruce says, voice almost a whisper but rising in volume, “that you would last even a day out there, alone? That you have anything close to what it takes to survive, to work, to _be_ Batman?

“You're irrational, flighty, young, and dependent on me: four things Batman isn’t and can’t be. I’m not your father, Dick, and I’m not going to treat you like you’re my son. I’m not even your guardian anymore. I’m going to treat you like Robin, because that’s who you are. ”

Dick feels his face burning. 

Bruce scans his body, taking in his watery eyes. 

“Why, Bruce? Why can’t you just–“

He cuts him off with a look, and Dick shuts his mouth. Bruce steps closer to him, his nose just above Dicks forehead, so close they’re almost touching, and Dick flinches when Bruce raises his hand, but Bruce only lets his hand float in front of Dick’s face, index finger directly in line with Dick’s eyes. Dick’s eyes go cross staring at the finger, and he feels younger than ever.

Slowly, Bruce looks down at him with those stone cold blue eyes, and asks him callously: “Do you want to fight for this city, Dick? Do you want to enter a crusade you can’t return from? Is that what you want? To fight an unending battle you can’t hope to win? To face monsters of men that care _nothing_ for you, Dick?_ Is that what you want_?”

Dick feels tears well up in his eyes that he won’t let fall, and something hot build up in his throat that he swallows down harshly. He doesn’t let himself blink, and he speaks roughly with a cracked voice. “I don’t want to fight for you, Bruce.” 

Something in Dick’s words does God-knows-what to Bruce, and Bruce’s face becomes calm, and Dick isn’t sure if it’s a mask or not. 

Bruce says nothing, and Dick closes his eyes. 

He’s so _tired_.

He’s so tired of being lonely, tired of being scared, tired of being _tired_.

He doesn’t want to be here anymore. He’s sick of Gotham, with its gross, foggy skies and dirty, angry streets and imposing, bleak buildings. He doesn’t belong here, he’s never belonged here. Gotham isn’t for people like him, who don’t want to work for angry men and attack poverty-stricken boys. 

He doesn’t have a home, and he hasn’t had a home since his parents were murdered. He probably never will. 

He’s so desperate for kindness, and happiness, and comfort from anyone, it makes him almost want to throw himself into the arms of a stranger who couldn’t give a shit about him, but would probably still love him better than Bruce. 

That’s when father-son relationships are supposed to be about, isn’t it? Love? That’s what his with his father was like with him, right? Maybe he was just too old when he met Bruce, their age gap too small. Maybe Bruce can’t conjure up paternal feelings or hugs or kind words or praises, because no one ever taught him how. 

But, Dick decides, fuck that. It’s not his place, as the son (is he?), of all people, to tell a man who is supposed to be his father how to be his father. He deserves better than that, he knows. It’s not his job to teach another man how to raise him.

He needs to leave, he knows it like he knows his name. He needs to get out. He can’t stay with Bruce any longer. He can’t live like this. He can’t live with a man whose idea of justice and life and liberty and _love_ are so warped and distorted. He can’t live with a man who always seems to be able to redirect a conversation to Dick’s faults. Life isn’t supposed to be like that, like this, he knows, he_ knows_, he needs to leave.

And if Bruce wants to fight him on it, they can fight. He’s _angry_ at Bruce, and he knows how to argue and punch and scream till his ears are ringing. 

It doesn’t matter what Bruce says next, if he even responds at all. He’s leaving. He’s done with Gotham, and the cave, and Alfred, and batarangs, and dirty fucking streets, and he’s sure as hell done with Bruce. 

Fuck Batman, he decides.

Dick can hear how clenched Bruce’s teeth are, and he prepares himself for battle. 

“Okay then,” Bruce says finally, firmly. 

Dick jolts, slightly in shock, slightly in relief, but his face remains flat. “Okay,” he responds, eyes still closed, images of laughter and smiles and big tops and hugs filling the darkness behind his lids.

**Author's Note:**

> hi, hope u enjoyed!!! posted this for like an hour a couple weeks ago and then took it down cause there were some thing i wanted to change :)
> 
> anyways, feel free to leave comments and/or kudos. i really want to improve my writing, but especially since i’ve been writing fanfics for over a year now, so any constructive criticism would be really appreciated!!!


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